Jennifer Reimer

A Week After the Failed Military Coup

A week after the Failed Military Coup, you run south to Olympos. You’re camped out with his book and all your keşke. You’ve found your vine-covered terrace. Ruins fallen into green river water. A week after the Failed Military Coup, some of your friends are banned from leaving the country. Word has just come through that you’re exempt. You feel guilty for having worried over an upcoming trip to Scotland to celebrate your birthday. You meet Tarkin from Diyarbakır, who sells mussels on the beach, and you feel utterly alone for the first time in four years. You’ll feel guilty for thinking about this, too. A week after the Failed Military Coup, broad-faced women in headscarves are making gözleme (“observation”—“do you remember—?”) that you eat on the beach. The Turkish Word of the Day is insan hakları—human rights. Bahane means excuse. Korkak means coward. He talks of Syrian refugees before he fucks you. The Failed Military Coup doesn’t give you “perspective.” You don’t need—. A week after the Failed Military Coup, the water is warm. You think about keşke when you float—suspended in salt and sea—absorbing differences in light transmission efficiency. Code names. A week after the Failed Military Coup, Turkish words for “freedom” and “democracy” tattoo the headlines. You don’t know the word for “disappointment”— or
what is inverse of—

Laura Shovan

Baking Challah

I fill our biggest pasta bowl
to full volume — flour, eggs,
oil, and yeast –
ignore the wooden spoon,
mix directly with my fingers.
The dough and I communicate.
I ask it to wake up, come alive
as I knead. It answers
with a measure of resistance.
I ignore it for some hours,
let it rest, and it responds
by growing – the impossible magic
of living yeast. A second knead,

a time to rant, to release
the week’s wrongs, to remember
the impact of this simple tradition,
survivor of every tyrant
who’s ever tried to starve us.